


one in the number of stars

by astarisms



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dara's demons come knocking every once in awhile, F/M, after everything is said and done and nahri and dara get to be happy together except sike, idk anything im just out here writing the endings i want my dudes, set after Empire of Gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 20:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18723991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/pseuds/astarisms
Summary: There was no remedy for guilt, no cure for a broken soul, no medication for such passionate self loathing. But, if he could tear the world apart for her, she could put his back together.





	one in the number of stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of hopefully many fics of these two to come. I hope y'all enjoy!

There is nothing that Dara hates more than being alone or idle, because when his mind and body aren’t occupied with another person or another task, they turn on him. The guilt, the horror, the remorse are easier to keep locked away when he has something else to keep his attention, but lately it’s been harder to find such distractions.

Tonight, he sits in the archway in the library that leads to the balcony, and stares up at the stars. He feels the claws of his demons unfurling inside of him, restless and hungry for his damnation. He curls his hands into fists where they rest over his knee as his vision dims and the stars wink out of existence, one by one.

One star to represent every life he’s had a hand in taking, until the sky is dark and he’s falling deeper into a despair of his own making.

Nahri finds him like this, white-knuckled and trembling and gazing unseeingly into the night. It steals the breath from her, to remember that even a year after all has been said and done, that Dara’s past still haunts him. It’s easy to forget sometimes, when she’s been so busy with the reconstruction efforts and training her apprentices and treating patients.

It’s easy to forget when he smiles so readily during the day, that he’s still grieving. 

They all are, of course, but she knows Dara doesn’t cope with loss like the rest of them. It never gets easier for him. This much she knows by the few times she’s found him like this since they overthrew Manizheh, but she hasn’t seen this side of him in months.

He hides his grief from her as readily as he hid the extent of his crimes. The realization that he still feels the need to do so after all they’ve been through together makes her heart ache.

She sits before him and reaches out to take his hands, slipping her fingers into his clenched fists and smoothing them out, holding them in her lap. He straightens his back, blinking rapidly as the stars return and then twists to look at her in confusion. Nahri remains silent, her head tilted thoughtfully as she threads her fingers through his.

“I’ve learned a lot,” she finally says, and her voice is so quiet he has to strain to catch it. “I can cure any number of magical ailments or broken bones. But for all I’ve learned, there are still things I can’t do.” Dara opens his mouth, ready to tell her how proud he is of her, to tell her that she’s doing fantastic and she’s mastered so much in so little time, always so eager to sing her praises. 

But Nahri doesn’t give him the chance, dropping one of his hands to press hers to his heart, her breath shuddering at the beat of it against her fingertips, reminding her that he’s here, that he’s real, that he’s  _ alive _ . 

“I can’t heal what hurts you here,” she whispers. Her hand drifts up to brush her thumb over the tattoo on his temple, and he leans into her touch. “Or here. Not with magic.”

He tries to hold it in, she can tell, but her sincerity and concern make it so hard. His expression crumbles and Nahri scrambles up onto her knees, between his, and he collapses against her. He buries his face in her chest and wraps his arms around her, and Nahri cradles his head, hurting for him. 

“Talk to me, Dara,” she pleads, and she feels him shudder. She drops her head, pressing her lips to the top of his. He tightens his grip on her, clutching at her back. Nahri feels his pain like a physical ache, and it’s piercing. 

The thought of her strong, determined Afshin hurting so much would have been enough to bring her to her knees if she wasn’t already there. The thought that he had been suffering alone, so determined to make amends for all he had done and undoubtedly trying to save her from his demons.

He’s grown so much since that first, fateful day in a Cairo graveyard, but unlearning the centuries of prejudices and toxic impulses ingrained in him hasn’t come without a learning curve. She supposes this isolation into himself is one unfortunate side effect, and it kills her that she hadn’t realized it sooner.

“Please,” she murmurs into his hair. “Let me help you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The ache in his chest becomes almost unbearable, and with those words, he unravels in her arms. He bares to her in rushed, incomplete, broken sentences all of his demons, all the things that haunt him and keep him awake long after she’s retired for the night.

That no matter what he’s done to atone, he’ll always be a monster. That no matter how much he begs for forgiveness, his soul was hellbound long ago. That no matter what he does to make her happy, there will always be someone better for her. 

Nahri shares in his grief, tightening her arms around him, blinking back the burning pressure behind her eyes. But for all that she hurts for him,  _ with  _ him, she is also angry. So, so angry. 

“How could you think those things?” she asks heatedly, her own voice breaking. She pulls back and takes his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her with those bright, anguished eyes. “You have worked every single day since al-nihaya to be the man you are today. You have made so many sacrifices and you fought your way out of that hole my ancestors, my  _ mother _ , buried you in. You have done terrible things, Dara, but you have also done magnificent things. For me. For our people. Your grief is proof that you are no monster.”

His eyes are almost blinding in the dim light of the library, only a few sparse lanterns and the glow of the stars to illuminate the outline of his face, but in them she can see every fear, every regret, every horrible memory and guilty thought. 

Her anger dissipates like smoke in the wind, and she swallows hard.

“Oh, Dara,” she whispers, her own voice breaking, and pulls him back to her. He shudders as he sobs silently into her chest, and she curls over him, cradling his head, wishing she could ease his pain the same way she eased her patients’. 

But there was no remedy for guilt, no cure for a broken soul, no medication for such passionate self loathing.

Nothing to heal those raw, gaping wounds inside of him, tearing him apart from the inside out. 

But, for all that they have been through, if he could tear the world apart for her, she could put his back together.

She swears it.

  
  



End file.
